


Incendiary

by sweet_ladyy



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s Queen, AU where Deaky isn't married to Veronica, Concerts, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hotels, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Smut, mean reporters, sad deaky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 17:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16897254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_ladyy/pseuds/sweet_ladyy
Summary: It was your very first time seeing a Queen concert as John Deacon's official girlfriend. But you noticed he was acting a little off while performing. What had happened to Deaky before the concert? And how could you remedy the situation?





	Incendiary

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to an anonymous request I received on my Tumblr (@sweet-ladyy) for a Queen fanfiction writing challenge. I modified the name (originally Lauren) on here to suit any reader. I hope all you lovelies enjoy! I really love receiving comments, and I promise to reply to every last one of them <3

One word came to your mind:  _incendiary_.

The energy in the air of the concert hall projected so thickly from the band’s performance that you felt like you could physically see it wafting over the crowd like a hypnotizing smoke. From your vantage point at the side of the venue, the few thousand roisterous bodies beyond the stage moved like a turbulent sea of outstretched arms. It was as if they were reaching out for that smoky cloud of energy, desperately trying to satisfy a shared addiction.

This was your first time seeing a Queen concert from backstage — really, it was your first time seeing a Queen concert since you started dating one of the band members.

You couldn’t help but smile as Freddie belted out and arched his back in tandem with Brian’s keening guitar solo. Roger crashed about on his pedestal, and the sweat drenching the tanned skin under his unbuttoned blazer glistened like honey.

But there was John. You couldn’t seem to take your eyes off of John. He was simply, purely beautiful. And he was all yours.

The stage fog/spotlight combination crowned him with a beautiful, hazy sort of halo, like the romantic film filter from your favorite movies. His presence on the stage contributed a sort of godlike quality to the concert experience, you thought. He was an undeniably good bassist; his fingers flitted about the frets in a way that made you feel inexplicably jealous of the guitar. His hair shrouded his face like a cowl as he focused on his fingers, but when he finally glanced up and squinted out at the crowd, his eyes looked rather sad.

_Was he okay?_

You swayed your body to the beat of “Get Down, Make Love” all the same, but you were distracted by that sad look on John’s face. He was so intently focused on his playing in a way you hadn’t seen before. Usually, he was so relaxed and loved to just let loose and dance at shows. You hadn’t had a chance to see him all day… Something must have happened before the show.

After the encore, the boys strode offstage with running makeup and huge smiles. You moved over to let them pass and retreat to the dressing room.

Freddie came first, gasping dramatically when he saw you. “Y/N, dear!” he exclaimed, kissing both your cheeks. “I hope you enjoyed us!”

“Always do, Freddie,” you replied back with a warm smile.

Brian and Roger both squeezed your shoulder as they followed Freddie. Their excitement was contagious, and you felt giggly and dreamy.

“Don’t steal Deaky away all night, ya hear?” Roger said to you. “We have an after-party planned at the hotel tonight when we get back. Make sure he brings you along!”

“Roger that! No pun intended,” you shouted back, winking. Roger laughed and leaned over to say, “I like this one!” in Brian’s ear.

Queen’s last hotel after-party had been a wild affair; apparently, by the time morning came around, the floor was littered with shards of glass from an overturned tray of champagne flutes, a dozen passed-out bodies, and down feathers everywhere. John had laughed and laughed when he’d told you about it yesterday.

You were just thinking about his dreamy smile when he finally emerged from the stage, last of them all. His body looked flushed and lively, but when his eyes met yours, they were full of storms.

Immediately, you could sense that something was very wrong.

“John?” you said, resting your hand on his arm. “What is it?”

He seemed to snap out of it then and forced a smile on his lips that could not break the dark spell of his eyes. “I’m fine, love,” he said. “How was the show?”

“It was amazing. You never fail to impress me,” you told him. He hands his bass off to one of the roadies. Gesturing to follow the other lads, he placed his hand on the bare skin at the small of your back beneath your crop top. Your spine seemed to tingle at the touch.

Backstage, all sorts of people clapped the backs of John and the other band members, exclaiming words of congratulation. Beside you, John smiled and thanked them all, but slowly he seemed to draw in on himself. You felt hypersensitive to any slight deviation from his normal demeanor. So you decided to yank on his hand to stop him and pull him over to the side of the walkway.

“What happened, Deaky? Will you talk to me?”

For a moment, the mask crumbled away and his face slumped. “Not here, Y/N… Can we make it to the hotel? We’ll talk there.”

His behavior was alarming. “Yes, but Roger mentioned some after-party—”

He groaned. “Not another one… I’m really not in the mood.” He glanced about then, looking around for anyone that might know them. “Let’s get out of here, Y/N. Just you and me. I don’t want to be around anyone else right now. Just you.”

Under different circumstances, his words would have sent a jolt of desire down your core. “Where will we go?”

“Somewhere. Anywhere. Just…away from all of this.” You followed his gaze down the walkway at a hoard of reporters and photographers bombarding the other three. He spoke his next words ever so quietly: “Can we go home? I just want to go home.”

“Babe, we’re a thousand miles from home, you know that.” He looked so devastated that you quickly added, “but we can go somewhere. Someone needs to know where we’ve gone, though…” You gently pushed his shoulders down so he’s sitting on top of one of the heavy-duty equipment chests against the wall. “You stay here.”

He stayed put. You trotted off toward the direction of the dressing rooms, passing the flashing cameras of the press. Just before Brian retreated into one of the rooms, you caught him by the arm. “I just wanted to let one of you know — John and I are leaving right now.”

Brian looked sympathetic, his dark hair dampened from perspiration. “You’re what’s best for him right now, Y/N.”

“What happened?”

Brian leaned in closer to your ear. “Bad experience at the press conference before the concert. Some arsehole reporter publically bashed his bass skills. Claimed he was the stick in the mud holding the band back from true success. Fuck,” Brian cursed, glaring at the group of reporters.

Your mouth fell open. “Oh, my god.”

“I know. We were all so appalled. Blimey, Queen wouldn’t be even half of what it is today if it weren’t for Deaky’s genius.”

You thought of John’s deep, uncharacteristic concentration on his playing at the show. No wonder.

“He’s been in a weird place all day. Help him, Y/N,” Brian pleaded. “He needs a lot of reassurance right now.”

“That’s my expertise,” you assured him. “He doesn’t want to go to the after-party, so I’m going to take him somewhere…quieter. I just don’t know where.”

Brian considered for a second. “I have just the thing…” he said before grabbing a pen and pad from a desk in the dresser room. He scribbled an address. “Go here, and ask for the room under the name Leroy Brown.”

“A hotel?”

“A different hotel. Chrissie was supposed to come to our concert tonight, so I had the room reserved…” his hand rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “…but she couldn’t make it, so I won’t need it anymore.”

You bit your lip to hold back a knowing smile. “Will do.”

“Oh, and last thing.” He pulls a folded newspaper clipping from his jacket pocket. “When you think the time is right…hand this to him.”

♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛

You and John snuck out of the venue and into the brisk night. In an effort to conceal his face and outfit from knowing eyes, you gave him the hooded fleece sweatshirt you’d had tied around your waist. And you had to admit, even though he was really depressed at the time being, seeing him cocooned in your hoodie like a kitten made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Neither of you said anything as you walked, and that was okay. At the corner of the intersection, you hailed down a cab, and the two of you crawled in. You gave the address to the cabbie, and John looked at you questioningly. You just shrugged at him as if to say, _you’ll see_. The whole ride you gently played with the soft locks of his hair as he rested his head on your shoulder in dejection.

The driver stopped at the address, and you paid the fare. You and John were across town now, standing at the base of a looming skyscraper of the fanciest hotel in the city.

He finally spoke up. “Every hotel in the city is undoubtedly booked to capacity on a Saturday night like this.”

You shushed him with a gentle kiss to the corner of his frowning mouth. “Do you doubt me?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Inside, the lobby was busy as expected. You approached the concierge and said, “Leroy Brown, please,” just as Brian had instructed. The attendant handed you the key and instructed you to the lift without hesitation.

John looked at you questioningly as the lift rises to the 30th floor. “I have my ways,” you said simply.

“You’re an enigma,” he replied under his breath with a wry smile.

The lift was lethargic, so you took the opportunity to press yourself against John and look up at him through your eyelashes. “It’ll be quieter here. No loud after-party tonight.”

His hands gravitated to your hips. His body under his clothes felt warm and smelled invigorating. “Thank you, love,” he said. Some thought of his was made evident by a sudden numb expression.

Before you could pester him again to talk to you, he spilled. “I’m a failure.” The words began to pour out of him. “I’m a fucking failure. I’m holding the band back. They’re too good for me, and I don’t belong. I fail everyone. I —”

“John Richard Deacon, you are a million miles from being a failure.” You locked your hands around his neck and bore your eyes into his with what you hoped was the intensity of the sun. “You are the most talented, amazing man I have ever met.”

“You don’t understand, Y/N. I don’t deserve to be in Queen. The guys can find someone better to replace me,” he sighed. “Someone who’s not shy, someone who has a million hit singles just waiting to be written. I don’t deserve any of this. I don’t deserve…you.”

You inhaled to dismiss his violent torrent of self-criticism, but the lift finally stopped on the 30th floor. You exhaled sharply and grabbed his hand to lead him to the room. The door opened with a twist of the key, and inside a clean and pleasant room awaited them. A single queen-sized bed with red silken sheets and feather pillows dominated the space. The blinds of the window were opened to present a stunning portrait of the busy neon city below.

You made a mental reminder to thank Brian profusely in the morning.

Turning to John, you examined him. He looked…so pitiful. “I’m ordering room service,” you announced. “You haven’t eaten in a while, have you?”

He nodded in a surprised reverence, almost as if you’d reminded him that he was hungry. So you quickly dialed the concierge and requested a platter of food and drinks be brought up.

In the meantime, John collapsed on his back on the bed, though the tension in his body hadn’t subsided yet. With a start, you realized he looked close to tears.

“Oh, John…”

You crossed the hotel room and crouched on the floor by his side, resting your arms on his chest. When he didn’t say anything, you tell him, “Brian told me what happened at the press conference.”

When he looked at you finally, his glistening eyes appeared almost embarrassed. “Dammit,” he whispered.

“John… You mustn’t believe that reporter. What he said was a load of bollocks. Come on, you know that…”

“That’s the thing.” His gaze turned sharp as broken glass. “What if it wasn’t a load of bollocks? Christ…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “The more I’ve thought about it, the more I realized the truth.”

“The truth?”

“That I need to quit the band before I drag us all to mediocrity.”

“What?!” Quit the band? “Deaks, you can’t be serious —”

“I am,” he said. But something — a sense of unsureness — tainted the tone of his voice, an emotion that above all things reassured you. He’s hesitant.

So you pressed your fingertips to his face. “No. Without you, Queen would fall apart and crumble to pieces.”

When a tear came running down his cheek and into his hair, you pulled away from him to reach into your pocket. You handed him the folded newspaper clip Brian had given to you. Wordlessly, you waited for him to unfold it and read the headliner:

_**“Queen Bassist John Deacon Glue that Holds Band Together”** _

Beneath was a stunning image of John smiling with bass in hand. A three-paragraph article detailed the bassist’s accomplishments, contributions, and “quiet yet powerful stage presence.” Somebody even quoted John as “one of the most influential rock bassists of all time.”

He read the article. Re-read it. “When was…”

“It’s from today’s paper.”

It took a few more minutes of John re-reading for the depth of the article to really sink in, and the moment it did you could see John’s eyes glass over. But this time was different…there was a smile.

“John Deacon. You are an absolute legend, and you cannot let anyone tell you otherwise. Do you know what Bri told me in the dressing room today? He said Queen wouldn’t be even half of what it is today if it weren’t for you.” You grasped his chin and turned his face to look at you dead-on. “They are your brothers. They believe in you, just as much as you believe in them. Listen to your heart. They need you.”

His lip quivered and you took his silence as a cue to hug his head tightly against your chest. “ Y/N… Y/N…” he whispered against the fabric of your shirt. “My love…thank you.”

“One reporter doesn’t matter,” you said. “Because for one critic, you have a thousand admirers.”

Perhaps the severity in your tone lent the change of vibration in the air between you two, but suddenly you sensed a sort of desperation emulating from his very being. As if on their own, your legs found their way around Deaky’s hips. You nestled your head in the warm crook between his neck and his collarbone. The slow movement of his hands, calloused and strong on your back, brought forth an involuntary shiver, and you realized this was exactly where you were meant to be.

The urgency to be close to him gave way to another feeling, something deep and powerful within you driven by the tendrils of desire coiling down your core. Straddling John, you felt him grow warmer and harder beneath your pelvis;  _like calling to like._  A flush of rosepetal pink crept over John’s skin, likely the same color as your hot cheeks.

“ Y/N,” he rasped. “I need you. I need…”

Your lips found his easily. He kissed you hard, insistently, urgently. The scrape of stubble against your chin, the scratch of his fingertips along the soft hairs of your back, the unspoken tether between your groin and his… Your breaths hitched, and he drank them in like a sweet wine poured from a holy grail.

Clothes flew off as fingers fought against sturdy buttons and zippers, the same fingers that pinched your nipples until a low moan broke free of your swollen lips. All the while, a sublime heat radiated from his body below you in a way that evoked some primal surge of energy.

He grasped your sides, then, and forced you over onto your back, holding himself up on top of you. Your body hit the mattress with a jarring creak of the springs.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“I don’t care,” you gasped, clawing for him.

“No, Y/N… I’m sorry. About earlier.”

“Don’t say that,” you said.

“I mean it. I’m sorry I was in such a low place. I need you.”

“I know.”

“I can’t imagine where I’d be without you.”

“You don’t have to.” You pulled his face down to yours again. His mouth began a pilgrimage south, lips tracing the nape of your neck, moving down to the plain of soft skin between your breasts. When his hot breath summoned goosebumps to the flesh of your tummy, you couldn’t help but arch your back in response. John situated himself at the base of the bed, his face lingering between your opened legs.

“John,” you gasped.

“Mmm” was all he replied.

_“John,”_  you tried again. “Promise me you won’t quit Queen. You have to promise me.”

He stopped his descent to gaze up at you. Before long, he smiled that brilliant smile of his. “I promise.”

And with that, he brought his face back down between your legs. Your thoughts scrambled as he nipped at the delicate skin on the inside of your thigh. Your hips bucked up involuntarily. The kisses moved inward over the bump of your pelvis in a torrent of warmth above the fabric of your undies, which he quickly moved aside so he could —

— a knock sounded at the door.

John glanced up in surprise at the sound. But then with a smirk, his soft eyes returned to you.

“We ordered room service, didn’t we,” he said.

You would laugh if you weren’t so turned on.

♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛

 


End file.
